


Turnover

by thingswithwings



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Basketball, M/M, NBA finals 2019, blowjob, sports announcers saying unintentionally sexy things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 00:37:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19073932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingswithwings/pseuds/thingswithwings
Summary: Patrick watches game one of the Raptors/Warriors NBA finals. David refuses to engage. At first.





	Turnover

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for game one of the Raptors/Warriors series? I wrote this during game two but literally every single one of the unintentionally sexy things the announcers say in the fic is pulled directly from the ABC sports commentary on game one. Sports are wild, my friends.
> 
> Thanks to eruthros for looking this over to make sure the basketball was correct.

“I’m not watching it,” David insists.

“I know.”

“If you choose to do that with the television, I am not responsible for the results.”

Patrick looks away from the TV and up at him curiously. “What will the results be?”

“Um. I might read my book over there?” David suppresses a smile and jerks his head towards the bed. It makes Patrick feel warm and glad inside, because David could easily head back to the motel, if he knows that Patrick doesn’t intend to spend the evening with him. But he sleeps here at Patrick’s apartment most nights, since they got engaged, and doesn’t seem to care that Patrick’s not going to pay any attention to him for the next two hours. He just wants to be around.

“That’s . . . fine, hon,” Patrick smiles. “Though I really think you’d like basketball if you gave it a try.”

Scowling, David says, “You don’t even like basketball. I have literally never heard you talk about basketball before. And you talk to me about _lacrosse_.”

Patrick bristles. “Well, okay, so, the Raptors have been improving every season the last few years, and I’m not―I just didn’t grow up with it, so―but I like it!”

“Ronnie said you were a _bandwagon fan_. She didn’t sound like it was a nice thing to be,” David reports, shaking his head emphatically. 

“ _Ronnie_ doesn’t like basketball _either_ ,” Patrick replies, incensed. “And, anyway, I . . . like basketball.”

“Right, right,” David intones. “Well, then, I’ll leave you to enjoy it.” He bends down and kisses Patrick softly, then heads over to the bed and lies down, opening his book. It’s one of the dense, interminable literary tragedies that he likes, with all the incest and weird magical realism. Patrick can’t imagine choosing that over Canada’s first time in the NBA finals, but, whatever.

The anthems and intros are over, so Patrick unmutes the TV. “You’re sure? It’s a whole bunch of beautiful men with nice haircuts touching each other.”

“Mmm, you’re not the first one who’s tried to sell me on sports with this tactic,” David replies, back against the headboard, book open in front of him. “I’m immune. Beautiful men should not be forced to compete with one another.”

“That’s not what you think about _Drag Race_ ,” Patrick mutters. The game gets going, and he watches for a while. 

“This announcer just said that whoever gets hot is gonna get a face full of Kawhi Leonard,” Patrick reports. 

“Sounds sexy,” David agrees, absently. 

“And Curry is getting hammered from behind by Gasol,” Patrick adds, a minute later.

“Good for Curry, he deserves it.”

The game’s fine, but not that exciting; Toronto stays ahead most of the time, so there’s less drama than Patrick usually likes in a game. He could channel surf and come back to it later, but he made such a big deal about watching it, about being excited for it, that David would definitely make fun of him if he switched to HGTV in the middle. He gets up and gets himself a beer instead.

“Want anything?”

“I’d love a glass of that cab franc,” David says. Patrick pours it for him and delivers it, gives him a kiss while he passes it over. “Thanks. Aren’t you missing your game?”

“Commercial,” Patrick says, even though the commercials ended a minute ago. “When we left them, Draymond was taking it right to the rim, over and over.” 

“Oh, well, that’s very sweet of him,” David says. Patrick kisses him again, and then again. “Sounds like your game is back on.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, mouth still near David’s. “I hear the Warriors are trying for triple penetration.”

“Ambitious,” David agrees. “So are you going to go and watch, and let me read my book?”

Patrick takes himself and his beer back to the couch. Siakam is having a really great game; Patrick really doesn’t know that much about basketball, but he’s been learning, and it’s a delight to watch some of these players. Not just because of how pretty they are, either, though that’s a new part of watching sports that he’s been getting used to: liking the athleticism and the beauty, both of those at the same time. It makes him think thoughts about why he liked team sports so much in high school.

He sips his beer and surreptitiously checks his phone while the teams trade field goals. He has a bunch of texts from Ray, about the game, which he replies to, laughing at some of Ray’s enthusiastic takes on the play by play. Ray had invited him over to watch, in fact. Ray was, right now, having a game watching party in his own mini-Jurassic Park, with Ronnie and Karen and a bunch of people from the local baseball teams. Patrick could’ve gone over and watched, like old times; Ray doesn’t care much for sports himself, but he loves watching people who love sports watch sports, and he and Patrick did that together plenty when Patrick first moved to town.

Patrick had just thought . . . well, that it might be fun to watch with David instead, for David to hear some of the ridiculously gay things the announcers said. Fun to be able to make jokes about them, or to talk about how pretty Kyle Lowry is. 

“Pascal Siakam and the Raptors have excellent ball pressure,” Patrick reports, verbatim. “They’re not sagging at all.”

David puts down his book in his lap and sighs loudly. “I am really not getting much reading done over here,” he calls back, pointedly.

“Oh no,” Patrick says. “That sounds very annoying.”

“It is.” 

Patrick watches the TV quietly, but David doesn’t pick his book up again. Patrick can tell David’s staring at him, but he doesn’t look over there. 

“Did you know Kevon Looney is a big who can switch? I’m not even sure what that means. But he is apparently going in through the backdoor, so maybe that gives us a clue.”

“Patrick,” David says, in the tone that Patrick knows he thinks of as his patient tone. “Did you want me to come and watch the game with you?”

“Oh, only if you want to,” Patrick says. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your reading.”

“Mm-hm,” David says, walking over to the couch, dropping his book pointedly on the table, and settling in over Patrick’s lap, straddling him. It puts his body between Patrick and the TV.

“Well, this isn’t going to be a practical way for me to watch the game,” Patrick protests, running his hands up David’s thighs and ass, landing at his lower back.

“Isn’t it? How frustrating for you, someone preventing you from enjoying your hobby.”

“It really is,” Patrick agrees. David braces his hands on Patrick’s shoulders and bends down to take his mouth. Patrick kisses him for a while, letting his hands wander, the sound of the announcers’ really gay comments fading into the background.

Then there’s a wild cheer and a lot of screaming, and Patrick tears his mouth away from David’s. “What was that?” he asks, as if David will know.

“I think they did a sports,” David says, and gives in to Patrick’s prodding, twisting to collapse next to him on the couch, so they’re both facing the TV. “Ugh, who designed these outfits?”

Patrick watches the replay, another really nice play by Siakam, and then says, “Huh?”

“Actually, I like the blue and yellow ones. They’re cute. But the white ones are _hideous_.”

“The white ones are our team.”

“Well, I can’t cheer for them if they’re going to neglect their look to this extent.”

“I’ll have to show you some Russell Westbrook videos,” Patrick says. “You’ll become an Oklahoma fan instantly.”

The announcers explain that Curry is a hard finisher, with either hand, and at any angle. Patrick glances sidelong at David, who is pursing his lips. A minute later, one of them claims that VanVleet is powerful at both ends.

“Okay this is really gay,” David admits. “I thought you were making those up.”

“I was not,” Patrick says.

“Are all sports like this?”

“Pretty much.” 

David snuggles in against his side. Patrick drapes an arm over his shoulders. “So which ones are the cute ones?”

The camera focuses in on Danny Green talking to Nick Nurse on the sidelines, so Patrick says, “Danny Green is kind of cute.”

“I like his hair. Who’s this sweetie who just made a home run?”

“Klay Thompson,” Patrick says. Then, begrudgingly, because Klay’s on the other team, he adds, “He is kind of a sweetie, actually.”

“So you have been following basketball for a while, if you know which ones are sweeties.”

“Last few years, a little bit, yeah.”

David leans over and kisses Patrick’s neck. “I’m afraid this game just isn’t holding my attention,” he murmurs, lips moving on Patrick’s skin.

“Are you sure? I’m told that we’re seeing some excellent Raptor D.”

“Oh my,” David says, sounding honestly taken aback. “Very kinky.” He tugs Patrick’s pajama pants down, pulling out his soft cock.

“What’re you doing, David?” Patrick asks, as he begins to stroke slowly.

“I’m watching basketball,” David replies, kissing down his neck to the hollow of his throat, above his t-shirt collar. “I love all these . . . ball-handlers.”

“It just seems like you’re―oh, oh―seems like you’re giving me a handjob,” Patrick says, reasonably.

“It seems like everyone watching this basketball game really wants to give the _players_ a handjob,” David objects, which, he’s not wrong. “I’m not the tease here.”

“You’re―definitely not―a tease,” Patrick agrees, because David’s hand is stroking him hard and sure, just the way he likes. David rubs his thumb over the tip, spreading the sudden wetness around, but it’s still too dry. “Can you―” he manages, and David kisses his mouth again.

“Yeah, I got you, baby,” he says, and bends over, sucking Patrick’s dick into his mouth. Patrick gasps, tries to catch his breath, watches Serge Ibaka pass flawlessly to Kawhi for a great three. His cock is filling up in David’s mouth, and David is drooling down all over him, getting him wet and filthy.

“God, David,” Patrick breathes. “God.” He ignores the motion on the screen in favour of looking down at David’s head, bobbing slowly up and down Patrick’s dick. David's dragging his lips up over the head and looking up at him sidelong before sinking back down again. Patrick closes his eyes, petting David’s hair softly. 

He opens his eyes again when David’s mouth pulls away completely. He looks down. David’s still got his hand fisted around Patrick’s cock.

“Did that announcer guy just say _load management_?” he asks, and Patrick breaks into giggles, both hands stroking fondly through David’s hair now. 

“We’re really concerned about Kawhi’s load. And how it’s managed,” Patrick tells him, still laughing.

“I’ll show you load management,” David mutters, and takes Patrick’s cock into his mouth, then deeper, into his throat, sinking down and down and down until he’s taken it all, swallowing around him, his throat tight and wet and hot. Patrick’s caught between amusement and desire and pure affection, trapped inside that feeling, lost in it. David loves getting him to laugh while he’s fucking, and Patrick loves it too, the abandon he can feel with David working him over, making him feel everything at once.

David sucks him, and sucks him, and Patrick’s laugh subsides into a gasp.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants. Suddenly he’s there, ready to come, with David’s throat convulsing on his cock and David’s hands clenching on his thighs and David’s hair under his fingers. David makes an encouraging noise, his eyes closed and his mouth open, and Patrick rocks his hips up and he’s coming, hands clenching restlessly against David’s shoulders while David swallows him down.

He’s catching his breath, barely conscious of David pulling carefully off of him, then much more conscious of David settling back into his lap, a warm heavy armful of David kissing his mouth and his throat. David’s cock is hard against his hip.

“So how are you feeling about basketball now?” Patrick asks, managing to get his eyes open, to look up into David’s eyes.

“I think it’d be better if they just all gave each other orgasms instead of the silly thing where they run back and forth with a ball,” David says. 

“That’s porn,” Patrick says, “you’re thinking of porn.” He gets his hand down David’s pants.

“Yes, exactly,” David says, arching into his touch. “Porn would be better.”

“What do you want?” Patrick asks. “My mouth? My ass? God, you’re so hard.”

“Give you a hint. It’s not from the basketball,” David replies, breathless. 

Reminded, Patrick glances over his shoulder; the Raptors are still up by a few, the same lead they’ve had all game. 

“I’m sorry, are you _checking the score_?”

“Just making sure I’m not gonna miss anything exciting,” Patrick replies, blinking up at him innocently. 

“Okay, so, just for that? I think you should have to blow me while I read my book out loud to you,” David says. “And I get to start with a verbal description of the frontmatter family tree.”

“Hot,” Patrick says, because he’s not one to back down from a challenge. “So long as I can see the score while you fuck me.”

“You’re impossible,” David mutters, but lets himself be pushed down onto the couch, lets Patrick climb over him and kiss him and take him in hand, starting up a slow, aching rhythm.

“Now you’ll let me know if you want me to work on the rim,” Patrick intones, kissing David’s neck and then moving down to his belly, loving the sound of David laughing in exasperation beneath him. “Or if my ball handling needs improvement.”

“We are never watching basketball again,” David promises, low and serious in the way he gets when he’s not serious at all. 

“The next game’s on Sunday,” Patrick replies, and takes him in his mouth.


End file.
